Breakfast's Ready
by ellamequiere
Summary: As the EU grows in power, Germany and France have to learn to live together again.  Some days are easier than others.  Implied dark sex.


France looked up from the stove as Germany walked down the stairs—head lowered, not meeting his eyes. "Rough night?" he asked.

Germany looked up at the endearment, cautiously. Then back down. France knew if he moved too quickly, he'd flinch. "I didn't sleep well," he said, finally.

He waved him over; Germany came to stand next to him at the stove. He slipped an arm around the other man's waist. "Would you like to tell me about it?" Germany shook his head. France sighed. He twirled the wooden instrument around the middle of the crepe pan. "Breakfast will be done soon." Germany didn't respond. France wasn't surprised; he rarely took breakfast on this sort of morning.

After a moment, Germany spoke up. "France?" he asked hesitantly.

France sighed. He knew what came next. It wasn't one of his favorite things about living with Germany, but if this was the only sacrifice he had to make for the sake of the new EU- and, if he were honest with himself, the man he'd started to care about a long time ago- he was getting off easy. Resigned, he said, "The crepes will burn." Germany looked down, hands twisting together. Another sigh. "It's alright, dearest. If this is what you want."

Expression turning hard, France smacked him hard across the face. "You slept in," he said, voice cool. It was the only infringement he could think of.

Germany looked down, and to the side. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I'm sorry isn't good enough, you lazy, worthless bitch." France snuck a glance at the crepe on the pan; nearly done. He made sure Germany was looking away, and gave it another twirl.

Germany took a deep breath. "Please, let me make it better," he whispered. France's heart ached.

France slapped him again. "You think you can make it better? You are an entitled, selfish brat." With each word, Germany shrank in on himself a little more.

"Isn't there anything I can do?" he whispered.

France gave him an appraising look. "This once, I will let you suck me." Germany looked up, and the hope in his eyes was painful.

"And if I suck you," France was always shocked at how easily the words came out of his mouth. It was hardly a surprise, really—he knew Germany had done his share of love-making, kind and otherwise—but he could never help the little mental double take. Some days, it was hot. Today, it was sad. "If I suck you," he whispered, "will I be good?"

France put on a show of thinking about it. "Yes," he said, finally. "If you suck me—so nicely, like your whore of a brother taught you—" he was toeing the line here; they both knew that Prussia had never touched him, "—then you will be good. Very good," he added, and Germany's eyes closed. His body went still, and relaxed. France shifted his first crepe off the stove and onto a plate, and poured the batter for the second. Then he unzipped himself. "Kneel."

Germany got down on his knees, looking up at him, eyes wide with trust and fear. France couldn't help a sigh. He wanted him laughing, moaning, gasping with surprise and pleasure. He wanted the shy, startled look in his eyes when France found a new spot; he wanted those rare moments when he could convince Germany to climb on top of him, the grimace of pleasure held in check as the other man slid inside him. But that Germany wasn't here this morning; instead there was this scared, broken creature. And France… France had no choice but to do what he could.

But... this sort of game, it was nothing to France; he wouldn't come from this. So he closed his eyes, and imagined. Anyone but the man at his feet- Spain, naked and laughing in the ocean, mouth hot and hands cold, when they'd finally made up after Waterloo. Austria, fussy and neat, coming undone as he made love to him slowly to the tune of his precious Chopin. Arthur, silly Arthur, finally allowing himself to push into France, the first time he'd done so without being furious. Arthur, centuries before, commanding and terrifying at Crecy, coldly smug at Leipzig, fucking him face first into the dirt.

It was this last image that he came to. Slowly, slowly, Germany sat back, and France zipped up, mind still full of Arthur's cold laughter. Germany looked up, eyes still full of hope, fear. France ran a thumb along his cheek, over his lips. "Very good, little one." Germany's eyes slid closed at the endearment. Not for the first time, France wondered why. "You are so good, have been so good for me today." He petted the man's hair, reaching over him to turn the heat on the stove off—he had gotten distracted. The second crepe was burnt beyond what was edible.

"Is everything alright now?" Germany asked, tone plaintive. France took some comfort in knowing that there was no one else in the world who would hear this tone from the man. Not anymore.

"Everything's alright," said France, voice soothing. Germany's eyes slid closed, and France ran his fingers through his hair. "Everything's fine. Now go sit at the table, won't you? I'll be done with breakfast in a moment."

Germany went to sit, face still downcast, but calm now. He would eat, drink a cup of coffee, take a shower, and come out his normal self. France would stand at the counter, washing the burnt batter out of his favorite pan, wondering if this would ever end.

NOTES

*The Battle of Crecy was fought during the Hundred Years' War- England whipped France's ass, and not in a good way; he was outnumbered, out-armed, and out-maneuvered. Not a good day for France..

*The Battle of Leipzig took place at the end of the Napoleonic Wars. It was Waterloo before Waterloo. France was fighting pretty much every major power in Europe simultaneously- and to make things worse, someone made a really, REALLY stupid mistake. For that fic, see The Bridge.

*As always, there's a more explicit version of this fic up on my journal.

*Thanks for reading!


End file.
